


CTRL+P

by piranabo



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Tony Stark, Past Relationships, Pining, Pining Steve Rogers, Slow Build, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 12:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piranabo/pseuds/piranabo
Summary: With every intention of deleting it, a pining Steve writes Tony Stark a love letter.He ends up sending it to Tony's printer by mistake.(Excerpt from letter: "Because it made my stomach sit sideways and my hands go tight. It made me want to dye my hair Pepper Potts-blonde because the way you were looking at her was like coming home, and I realized that. Christ, that I wanted to be the one you came home to, and I wanted Tony Stark to be my coming home." Loosely canon-compliant.)





	CTRL+P

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one: Steve's letter. Chapter two: Tony returns Steve's letter. With edits.

_Tony,_

I’m not sure how this is going to come off. We’d had a rocky start, and even if we’re friends now, there’ll always be that history. I wouldn’t be surprised if you still hated me a little for it. I was alone, out of time, terrified, insecure, and I lashed out. When I said those things, knowing you now, they’re almost cartoonishly wrong, and, looking back, I realized that I never actually was brave enough to apologize to you. Too proud, and jealous of this amazing, brilliant asshole who can learn thermophysics (I think?) in a night and didn’t need anyone else’s help to be a hero. I’m sorry for that, and it’s important that I apologize first because none of what I say next is going to make any sense if you think I still hate you.

Because I don’t hate you. Hate’s probably as far away from what I’m feeling as you can get, but I can’t just jump ahead. I have to do it right. So here it is:

I get to know you. There’s the Stark Towers squaddling phase, where we’re working on pieceing New York City back together and staying at another building with your name on the top. It’s a step up from my apartment, at least. And yes, things are tense. Weird. When we’re in a room together, I can feel Nat and Clint perk up like they’re just waiting for a toussle. We even had a few if I remember. Nothing Hellicarier bad, but existing. This isn’t about the fights though. After we saved New York, there was no venom left in them anyway. I’m not sure what I did that made you start to be kind to me. For me, it was the way my chest seized up when you flew into the sky with that missile and thinking to myself that I was gonna have to watch another good man die. But no matter what did it for you, there was somepoint, somewhere, between shwarma and Stark Towers where things changed, and that was probably the whole start of it.

There was this night. You were somewhat inebriated, but functional (because you’re always functional, when it comes down to it) but it was you, me, Bruce, and Nat then Nat and Bruce wondered off at somepoint. This was the first time the two of us were alone, casual setting, not at each other’s throats. You’d asked me how ‘New New York’ was treating me. I think I replied with a joke—I don’t remember what—but you laughed at it. And it was my first good night in this century, and I do mean that literally. And it happened more after that. The team would be talking about something, and you’d mention some new food place, and at some point, you stopped even asking me to come because I always would.

And then there’s the references: ‘You’ve really never seen Star Wars, Captain? What, you been living under a rock the last forty years? Or… ice.’ and spending six hours in Stark Tower’s movie room watching every episode, including the prequels because I wouldn’t stop asking about them and didn’t believe you when you warned me. (Note: I should have believed you.) But more than that, in conversation, you’d always use these references, I mean you always do that, but it turned from naming them every so often to all the time and always offering a context for them, and maybe it has nothing to do with me—it probably doesn’t—but it helped me get to speed with century more than I can say. Suddenly, after spending a few months with Tony Stark, I starting to feel like an average twenty-first-centrian.

Then Pepper moved back in. She’d been in Malibu, but I’d seen her enough over the video chat thing you two would do for meetings that I felt like I’d known her already. I was standing back, talking to Bruce about some art exhibit opening up nearby, and Pepper came in. I’m guessing it was unexpected. You’d dropped your coffee mug on the floor and ran up and kissed her and told her she was late, which was confusing since it seemed like she’d surprised you, but it’s probably some inside thing you two have, so. So that’s not important. When you kissed her, and I’m sorry I’m talking about your ex, that’s probably really weird, but this was a big moment because it was. Because it made my stomach sit sideways and my hands go tight. It made me want to dye my hair Pepper Potts-blonde because the way you were looking at her was like coming home, and I realized that. That—

That I wanted to be the one you came home to, and I wanted Tony Stark to be my coming home. And I hated myself for it.

You’ll probably remember that I was an irritable brat again during most of Pepper’s stay. We fell off as friends, and that was the part that was the worst on me. I was being stuck up and selfish and unable to control myself when it was so obvious you never even thought of me like that. Heck, I never even thought of me like that, but I thought a lot about it over the last few years, and even in the forties, I guess I would watch the football players and the cheerleaders pretty equally. This is another part of the letter that ends in ‘sorry’. I had no right to be bitter over an idiotic, unfounded crush, and I avoided Pepper and was more hard on you than you deserved. I’m sorry for that. I really, really am.

Then, and sorry again for bringing this up, but you’re not even going to see this, so I should just stop apologizing anyway. Then you and Pepper broke up. I don’t think anyone on the team knew. Maybe you told Bruce. She just went back to Malibu, business as usual, meetings as usual, the two of you doing those quick, flirty back-and-forths as usual. Somehow, one night, now that I was starting to get a handle on myself around you, we ended up alone again. Bruce was there, then Clint stole him for some video gaming thing, and it was you and me at one of the tower’s bars. You’d split some stupidly expensive champagne with me even though I told you I couldn’t get buzzed off it. We’d talked casually, or our version of it, at least. ‘How do you think JJ’s gonna handle Star Wars, now that he’s got it?’ and ‘Any update on Barnes?’ Then, at some point into my rambling on Hydra, you interrupted me, and asked me if I’d ever been with anyone seriously before, and if I had any drink in my mouth, I probably would have spat it out. ‘Not really enough time, in either time,’ I’d said then ‘Why you ask’? And there was this thick pause and you told me that you and Pepper weren’t seeing each other anymore. I didn’t get why you were telling me. I still don’t. I didn’t push for a reason, you swallowed down another shot and asked if I knew what Spaceballs was. I didn’t. We didn’t end up sleeping that night. ‘Another one?’ and ‘Sure’ and then we were friends again, and that really should have been enough for me.

It wasn’t. It isn’t. I still, still had my face heat up when you were around me. God, it’s pathetic. You’d hugged me once, after some mission where I’d almost died, and I felt like. Like coming home.

But you didn’t. It was never like that for you. I knew that. I kept thinking I would get over you, then this happened, and that happened and Ultron really happened and I could still listen to you talk for hours about science I had no chance of understanding and lived for those stupid moments where you’d pat my shoulder or sit next to me instead of Bruce for once on the hellicariers. And, that’s the whole point of this letter. I can’t get over you. I don’t know how. It’s been years. Literal, actual years, and yes, I’m the Captain of Waiting, but this is ridiculous. It’s embarrassing, and it gets in the way of this amazing friendship I still can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have. You still spend hours showing me how to use something basic on my computer, even though you’re a genius with a hundred bots that could do it for you, and still take me to whatever absurd food place you want to try next, even if it involves literally flying across the country like we did that one time, and you still listen to me when it’s three am, and I can’t sleep because the serum didn’t get rid of the flashbacks or the trauma, and I’m just so happy I have you. You’re a great person. (Maybe a little snippy. Net great.) A person I really like. A person I the opposite of hate.

I should probably just out and say that I love you.

I’m gonna burn this anyway. Okay. Here goes:

Tony Stark, I love you. I’m not brave enough to say it in person. Thank you for being a friend, and thank you for being my friend. I love you. Hopefully I’ll be able to stop soon.

_-Steve_

 

Steve doesn’t bother proof-reading. He presses ‘File’ then ‘Print’ like Tony had showed him however many years ago, and closes the file without saving it. Then he stares at the printer at his desktop, and waits. And waits. He checks his pocket, yes he does have the matches, tries to draw a flame and fails a few times before striking successfully and blowing it out. Steve frowns. It really should have printed by now. Maybe he did it wrong?

It doesn’t matter, really. The letter was written, now it’s gone. Steve didn’t get the satisfaction of watching it burn, but that wasn’t really the point. He just had to say it to Tony once, even if he did it the coward’s way and isn’t really saying anything to him. Still. Steve retreats back to his bed and stares at the ceiling.

An hour passes.

Two.

Maybe Steve should write another letter, he thinks, when he realizes the nausea in his stomach, the guilt of being in love with someone who you aren’t even dating, who doesn’t even see you like that, isn’t going anywhere. Maybe if Steve actually watches this one burn, he’ll feel—

Someone knocks on the door the door. A white piece of paper slips under the door frame and the distinct sound of footsteps walking away fill Steve’s root. Steve sits up, confused. Getting off the bed, he walks over to the paper and bends down to inspect it. The paper is folded into a makeshift envelope, with curt scrawl over the front Steve knows is Tony’s handwriting saying. Steve’s stomach sinks. He reads the writing above the fold:

 

**Rogers. This came in on my printer from your computer.**

 

Maybe he didn’t read it, Steve thinks. His thumb slips under the fold, and Steve looks. Written in the margin above the Tony, is more quasi-illegible script.

 

**Didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to read it until about 3/4 through. I’m sorr—**

 

Steve puts the letter down. He closes his eyes. He ruined everything. Of course he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, bookmark, yadayada. Question for the comment section: what font do you think Steve would type with? And Tony? 
> 
> The concluding chapter two will be posted this time next week. Love ya!


End file.
